


A Puzzling Circumstance Wherein A Dream Weaves Itself Into Reality

by patooey



Category: Sherlock (TV), Strike Back, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen, Hints of reincarnation, Lots and lots of references, Parallel Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patooey/pseuds/patooey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson had this recurring dream for weeks already, and it was starting to haunt him even in the waking world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dream

John snapped open his eyes, rubbing sleep from them. He has had this recurring dream for weeks already, and it was starting to haunt him even in the waking world. It was virtually the same in structure; same events, same persons.

_“Sad or merry, I must leave this earth now.”_

The words echoed in his head as John pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and stare towards the window, a sliver of sunlight glaring from the crack between the curtains. As he stood and drew them, he recalled the persistent dream again, in which he was not merely an observer, but somebody who was there, orchestrating within the reverie.

 

\---

“No, please don’t…” John, whoever he was in that dream, desperately kept trying to keep the man awake by stroking his long dark hair, streaked with silvery greys, or by caressing his blood-spattered cheeks. The man merely smiled, ice blue eyes looking intently at him, but they were dimming slowly. Waves of disbelief washed over the person whom John channelled, how could somebody as strong as him succumb to death? He was about to speak when the dying man whispered.

“Farewell.” And that was it.

\---

 

The first time he woke up from the dream, he found Sherlock looming over him, worry clearly etched on his face, wiping his tears away. John hurriedly got up then, pushing past Sherlock and sought refuge inside the bathroom, dousing his face with cold water. It was the first time he had been seen by Sherlock cry, and from then he steeled himself to never shed a tear in front of him. Thus was what his ego dictated. Weeks of dreaming about the same thing might have numbed John already, owing to its redundancy, but it still confused him.

Morning of the nth time he had waken up from the dream, John walked out of the bedroom and into the living room. He found Sherlock on his favourite couch with his feet propped up the coffee table, his nose buried into the newspaper. Perhaps he had felt John’s presence, for he immediately dropped the paper and greeted him with “Dreamt again, John?” He wasn’t sure whether he had been crying or speaking in his sleep, or Sherlock had deduced every molecule he had in him to know, but he replied with a shrug and a simple “Yes, same.” Sherlock seemed satisfied with the answer, and started to rant, as he had done every single morning.

“Guess what. I thought that one-of-a-kind serial killing case I solved last week would be first and last. Apparently, some bastard mimicked everything about that murderous monstrosity and did it again.” Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “God, I’ve never been so wrong in all my life.”

John wasn’t sure whether it was the timely talk of death, or something Sherlock had said, but he suddenly remembered the dying man the dream. A vision of the man somehow flashed in his mind. He had a strong built, made even more imposing by his garb of mail and fur, always covered with a dark blue velvet cloak. His hair was long, black and wavy, with traces of silver here and there. His face had strong features, and he always wore a grim expression. Yet, his eyes… Somehow his eyes said some things his face can not. And John was sure, this man was important character in his dream self’s life.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, bringing back John to consciousness.

“Oh, Sherlock, sorry. You were saying?” John stammered.

“Get some tea already.”

“Right, right. Tea…”

However, John did not budge and continued to stare, now directed at Sherlock. He did not notice this before, but there was something about how his dark hair curled about his face. There was something about his eyes when they glinted at the slightest mention of crime and the intensity they exude when he thinks, going into a world he only knows about.

 

_Similarities to the man in my dreams, perhaps?_

 

“John, are you going to move your arse or what? I actually am waiting for you to fix our breakfast.”

He did want to argue with Sherlock’s bossiness right then and just let out a big sigh, rolled his eyes and marched off towards the kitchen.

What John did not know was Sherlock was also baffled with all the dream business. He had noticed that John spoke in his sleep for the past weeks, particularly muttering something like “thorn” over and over again. His eyes were also red and puffy in the morning, evidently from crying. One time even, he had caught John crying, and out of worry he started wiping John’s eyes to snap him out of it, but was hastily pushed away, leaving him baffled as ever. He was no shrink, but he could tell something was bothering John.

 

Maybe he’ll ask another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy there! It's me again. Thanks for all the hits and kudos from my drabble. So, here's another one, thought of while having a shower. (I have the weirdest thoughts in the weirdest situations LOL) Considering to have this a multi-part thing. IDK, maybe if I feel like it? *ehemconvincemecough*
> 
> Enjoy reading and thank you as always.


	2. The Puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally tells Sherlock the dream. Then, something unexpectedly turns up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, I made this a multichapter.
> 
> Yup, there's a new crossover character in here somewhere.
> 
> Please be kind and enjoy as usual. THANKS SO MUCH EVERYBODY! :)
> 
> I own nothing, I get nothing... Maybe only a bit of love.

John flinched, and woke up to see Sherlock swathed in his favourite white sheet, curled up and head resting on John’s chest. It was _that_ dream again, and he was very sure Sherlock had been disturbed by his sudden jerk. Either that or he was never asleep at all. True enough, the moment John stirred, Sherlock spoke.

“Dreamt again, John?”

He sighed and closed his eyes, while the other quickly understood. John ran his hand into the short, dark curls, which he normally did when he couldn’t sleep and Sherlock was just beside him. He had expected the detective to be mum after his answer, yet he pressed on, and John had not expected this.

“You know, you can tell me.”

“Wh – what?”

“Tell me about your dream.” Sherlock plainly said, shifting ever so slightly on John’s chest, back turned to him. It was his chance, he thought, to finally know what kind of dream overcomes him while awake and leaves him in tears while slumbering. On the other hand, John wasn’t certain whether he should tell Sherlock or not. To tell him such a shallow dream may just humour him for a nanosecond to be forgotten afterwards. Yet, he decided that by letting it out, even if it enters Sherlock’s right ear and exits his left, may help him get over the dream eventually. With this, he cleared his throat and began.

“You see… I dreamt that I was this certain person, and somebody was dying right in front of me, and I tried my best to keep him awake.” John’s hand found its resting place on Sherlock’s shoulder. “For some strange reason. I could feel everything the person felt, it was like _I_ was that person, even.” He paused for a while, trying to find the words in his head. “And I thought, why am I so sad? Why did he have to die? He was so strong, he was everything I was not and here I am, still alive while he clung to death, he…” John felt Sherlock’s cold hand over his, steadying him. He tried hard to battle the lump on his throat as he continued. “It was unfair, Sherlock.” The image of the man with blue burned in his head as he told everything, and the dream began to replay itself on loop.

Sighing, Sherlock crawled upward to rest his head on John’s shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist, partially covering him with the sheet. “But dear John, it was only a dream.” His whispers turned into a chant, pausing once to plant a kiss on John’s forearm. “Only a dream, only a dream...” It may be working, Sherlock mused, for he could feel John’s breathing slow down, and his eyes slowly closing at every breath.

 

\---

 

It was a quarter past four in the morning when the detective’s phone started to vibrate constantly every five seconds.

“Goddamnit, Lestrade…” Sherlock knew he was the only one to call at such an ungodly hour. Sleepily, and without removing his head from a deeply-sleeping John’s shoulder, he reached out an arm across to get his revolting mobile, and pressed the “answer” button the moment he was able to grab it. Watson, meanwhile, was roused when the bed rocked from Sherlock’s abrupt movements as he stood from the bed to pace towards the closet to shuffle for neat clothes.

“What’s happening?” He blurted out rather blearily.

“Someone from the SAS has committed suicide… Or it’s a terrorist move.” Holmes cradled his phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he tugged at a white shirt, black slacks and his dark blue scarf. “Yes, we’re coming… We… Watson doesn’t mind of course… Yes, yes.” Sherlock was looking directly towards John now, eyes emanating an apology, a plea for help and an altogether glint of eagerness for adventure, all at the same time as he always had before a case. He had no choice but to agree with his version of puppy-dog eyes, but somewhere in his mind the man in the dream had manifested himself again, akin with Sherlock’s gaze.

John grunted, _just when I was finally catching up on some sleep._ He stood up and trudged towards the bathroom. Morning has rather come early upon them that day.

 

\---

Greg Lestrade began speaking on first sight of Holmes and Watson as they crossed the police cordon. “The victim was found brown bread around three thirty this morning, fell off a building. Unfortunately, no witnesses were around to see what had transpired.” Sherlock had paced ahead, eager to see the unlucky corpse. John trailed behind, listening to bits of investigatory tirade that the two have already started.

“I'd prefer to think he'd jumped, but... It did not give me peace and we’re not going to settle for that, so I gave you a ring up.” Before leaving the house, John stealthily slipped an mp3 recorder into his breast pocket, as he was going to give his new chronicling technique a dry run. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise because, quite frankly, he could not concentrate. His mind volleyed between the case at hand and the nagging dream. A few minutes and internal struggles later, another man had turned up to approach the inspector.

“You were looking for me?” The man’s voice boomed, and rang strangely familiar to John.

“Oh, there you are Porter.” Lestrade casually greeted with a shake of a hand. “Gentlemen, John Porter of the Special Air Services, he knew the vic personally.” The new man nodded his head solemnly at the other two. “Sergeant, this is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.” He watched as the two shook hands rather apprehensively.

“And here is Dr. John Watson, his associate and chronicler.” The sergeant reached out his hand toward John. Taking it, he met John Porter’s gaze.

 

 

It was as if he saw the ghost of the man in his dream.


	3. The Circumstance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIRD INSTALLMENT! With lots of references and, yes, elaboration of a new crossover character. If you aren't familiar with the series where Porter came from it's [here](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1492179/).
> 
> This is for [Linc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lincesque), who stuck with me through writing this chapter.
> 
> Thanks as usual for the love! <3

_Impossible._

If John Porter wasn’t the carbon copy (minus the long hair, mail and fur, definitely) of the man in his dream, John Watson thought, then he doesn’t know who he is. He was at a loss for pleasantries of first meetings upon meeting the other John. To add to his skyrocketing confusion, the sergeant spoke.

“I’ve seen you before, doctor.”

John’s blood froze.

_If he's seen me before, where? When? In another life? Another time? Could that dream be actually a fragment of a memory or-_

He barely managed to keep his composure and stammer a reluctant “Where?”

“South Regional Command headquarters, summer of ’03, when you declared two of my mates dead.”

Being a military doctor, Watson has handled multitudes of wounded, broken, traumatised and dead soldiers, all of which he tried to forget with booze and psychiatric therapy. Yet, here comes Sergeant Porter, rekindling everything he was trying to forget, even that dream that seems relevant only because this person was a dead-ringer. What bothered him most of all, however, was why he was even attempting to remember at all.

“Well, I am sorry for that,” Sherlock suddenly piped in. “And so is good doctor Watson here. But, I do believe we should be carrying on now.” That came out rather rude, but John was thankful for the distraction. Porter resigned by pursing his lips into a fine line, but gave a cold, hard stare at the detective as he listened in, interjecting from time to time whenever Lestrade posed a question. John, meanwhile, was swimming in his own thoughts as he juggled with taking down mental notes on the case and steering his focus from resting on a certain person in the present company. Time and time again, his focus would land on those blue eyes, cold and hard as he glanced from his comrade's mangled remains, to Sherlock, to the inspector, and finally towards him. John held his breath as Porter held his gaze for a while, seemingly boring holes into his being.  
  
 _What if it was really possible and-_  
  
"Please do come with me to HQ, where more evidence is already waiting, I presume." Inspector Lestrade addressed to the group, but Porter quickly replied.  
  
"I'm staying here."  
  
He quickly dug his hand into his inner jacket pocket and produced a pen and a scrap of paper, remains of a print advertisement, and quickly scratched his name and number twice. After which, he tore the paper in two, handing over half to Lestrade and the other to Sherlock, who was keen to pass it to John.  
  
"If anything, please do not hesitate to give me a call." With that, he gave a final look at the body and turned the other way, walking towards the building lobby. Greg, Sherlock and John followed him with equally puzzled looks, until Sherlock announced, "I am not at ease with this Porter. I feel he would be a roadblock to this case."  
  
"But, Holmes, he is our easiest link with the SAS; presenting himself to me the moment we arrived here."  
  
"Say what you want, Lestrade. I just hope I won't get to talk to him anymore."  
  
John kept silent, surprised by Sherlock's evident distaste with Porter. He guessed that if ever they would need some light from him (and John was certain it would be kept to a minimum), it would be his task to talk to him, because it had come to knowledge that they have encountered each other in the past. Somehow, he became afraid. With all the inner turmoil he had with his situation and with the person, he might not be able to do his job at all.  
  
In the meantime, the chronicler slipped the paper into his breast pocket, and then pressed the "stop" button of his recorder as they walked towards Lestrade's police mobile to save on some battery. A long day was sure to be ahead.

 

\---  
  
Later on that night, after much listening in to interrogations and gathering evidence in the site, John Watson the blogger sat slumped on his designated couch across Sherlock's, computer cradled on his lap and an earpiece connected to his recorder snuggled into his left ear. He whiled away two hours by transcribing the recordings, later on to be summarized and posted to his blog. Nevertheless, he wasn’t able to get on with it easily. During the first hour of transcription, he had managed to repeat over and over a phrase from the record at four AM.

_I’ve seen you before, doctor._

By the next hour, John had already seen some details he did not understand, caused by his partial inattentiveness. His pride did not let him ask Sherlock regarding the information amiss, so he decided to give John Porter a message to ask if they could meet for some clarifications.

That or he was looking for a way to see him again. 

At the top of the third hour, his mobile phone beeped softly. It was Porter, with the details on where they were to meet.

“Sherlock?” John said, putting a bit of caution with his voice. The detective, who had assumed his usual thinking stance of closed eyes and pressed-together fingertips, did not move nor reply, but John had assumed he was being heard, so he continued. “I’m… Going out for a while. Just to decompress. I’ll be back soon.” He pocketed his phone, closed the laptop, slid it in its case and held it as he stood to go towards the door and get his coat, which hung from a hook on the door. As he put on his coat, Sherlock muttered.

“You are going to meet him, are you?”

“N-no, no. I just need some air, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, John.”

John was taken aback by the brash tone in Sherlock’s voice. Conceivably, he had deduced him again without a single difficulty. If he had known all long then, John reflected, he wouldn’t have to ask why he was doing this. But, before his guilt could take the best of him, he buttoned his coat, grabbed his laptop from the drawer by the door and turned the knob. As he was halfway out, Sherlock called.

“Make sure to get back with Earl Grey.”

Watson couldn’t help but smile as he shut the door.

Upon hearing John’s footsteps fade as he went, Sherlock opened his eyes. Ambivalence troubled him, for he did not know whether he was relieved that John had taken the initiative to fill out the missing pieces without his urging or desirous because it would mean that he would see Porter again and… Sherlock shook his head.

_A puzzle within a puzzle, isn’t this it?_

\---

 

“Of all places to meet, I still don’t get why it’s ‘The Pie Hole’.”

Across the table filled with four bottles of lager and a half-finished shepherd’s pie was John Porter, smirking at John Watson’s comment. Just an hour ago, they had met as if a heavy shadow weighed upon them, merely exchanging “good evening” and short answers to short questions. However, tides changed after Porter offered Watson beer. They were not sure whether it was the alcohol or the shared experiences of serving Her Majesty, but they suddenly began talking as if they were friends of old. Their conversations included their reasons for being relieved from duty, their current whereabouts, the horrendous news of terrorism and crime, Porter’s twin nieces Phyllis and Kelly and Watson’s childhood dog Bomber. The murder-cum-suicide topic was soon pushed aside.

“Well, it’s quiet here. Nobody goes in much, except a few American passers-by. It’s owned by this fellow named Ned, whom the waitresses say treats everybody like a big germ, afraid to touch people like they have the bubonic plague or what-not.” Porter replied. John laughed appreciatively, and then both let a comfortable silence take over them for a few minutes. John was in disbelief, wondering how the world had managed to make a nagging dream a prologue of some sort, leading to meeting John Porter. Moreover, he wondered why the dream had made such an impact with him, when in fact the present did not seem as harmless or tragic.

_Future repercussions?_

“I’m going back to service in a week’s time, doctor.” Porter broke the silence. “And, I will see to it that while I’m at it, _our_ case will be solved.” John only nodded in reply, while the other continued. “Thank you for your time.”

“I should be the one thanking you for your time, for answering my queries.”

“You’re welcome.”

Silence.

“I don’t even know why I’m taking my leave from you.”  
  
 _Why indeed?_ John mused as his thoughts went again towards the dream, to the part wherein Porter’s long-haired doppelganger bids farewell, and he starts to cry uncontrollably. Should he be doing this now?

“It doesn’t matter.” He spoke, trying to dismiss his confounding internal predicament.

“It matters.” Porter answered back, giving Watson a hint of a smile, ice blue eyes once more seeing through him.

 

It left him all the more confused.


	4. The Weaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries out past-life regression therapy to answer his questions and solve his problems. Apparently, he also finds out that the man in his dream was just within reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long! Had to do some elaboration. ^^; This part is made out of six pieces of mango-filled puff pastry, 300 ml of black coffee and lots and lots of love.
> 
> I ripped-off a bit of Tolkien, but I do not own him. I own nothing, I get nothing. Maybe a bit of love.

“Lestrade called. He says we’re out of the case now. Leave it to MI5 and MI6.” Sherlock announced as John entered the living room, having just woken up from a fitful slumber. It had just been barely three days, but since they handled the SAS suicide/murder case, and since John Watson met John Porter, it weighed upon him like stones tied to his feet. The quandary manifested itself into John, for dark circles lined his eyes and his skin was a constant shade of pale. Sherlock was quick to notice and figure out, yet his respect for the doctor held him back from commenting anything. Instead, he quipped seemingly normal.

“Not a loss, though. I never liked the case anyway, just leaving it to my cheeky little brother and his big-time folks.” With that, Sherlock whipped open the paper, crossing his legs as he pretended to read. In fact, he observed John quietly from the edge of the page as he walked towards the kitchen.

_Sluggish movement, dark eyes, pale skin, mouth a lopsided frown, eyebrows furrowed, obviously lack of sleep, possibly with a hangover. Went home at quarter to one, smelt of shepherd’s pie and lager, Porter sure has bad taste. But, kudos to John, he managed to bring home some tea._

“I’m going for my routine psychiatric evaluation today.” John mumbled as he tipped the pot of tea Sherlock made, filling his mug halfway. Sighing, he sat on the counter stool. The detective only hummed in recognition, finally returning his eyes onto the current page, but his ears never left John as he heard him fish out some biscotti from the jar, chewed it slowly and paused for swallows and sips of tea.

“Well, prepare to flunk.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

It took a hefty scrape of the stool, a rapid succession of foot falls and a bang of the loo door before Sherlock regretted why he didn’t keep his mouth shut.

 

\---

_This is insane, no pun intended._ John deliberated as he waited in Dr. Ralph Grey’s reception area. Past-life regression hypnotherapy wasn’t something he had considered doing. But, since it was Dr. Thompson herself who referred him (“A shot to the moon, but worth a try!” she said), it may not be as bad as he thought. For lack of anything better to do, John twiddled with his thumbs. He had left his mobile phone at home, switched to silent mode and buried in his drawer, under his shirts. He was sure that Sherlock would nag him like an annoying, childish idiot until he went home, and he wanted nothing of that sort since that morning’s comment, which he still held a grudge to.

“Dr. Grey is now ready to see you.” The receptionist called, motioning John to come inside the doctor’s room. He stood, and walked reluctantly towards the door which the lady had left open. Upon entering he bid a sheepish “Good afternoon, doctor.” Dr. Grey had swung around on his swivel seat to face him, grey, bushy eyebrows lifting in acknowledgement.

"Do you wish me a good afternoon, or mean that it is a good afternoon whether I want it or not?” He boomed, amusement lacing his tones.

_Really, this is insane._

One hour after, John had felt a strange lightening in his chest. The good doctor said that it was because the load was finally lifted from his chest, and that his recollections had been very promising. He handed John a CD of his recording and offered that he listen to this very carefully. 

“Also, if in case you’d like to contact the person who had the same recollections as yours,” Dr. Grey spoke as he wrote on his prescription pad an address. “Do visit him talk to him. You might get the answers you need.”

John was dumbfounded. _The same recollections as mine?_

“What do you mean, doctor?”

“He had the same dream and recollections as yours.” The psychiatrist plainly stated as he tore the page off the pad and handed it over to John. “Only that, his psyche was in your dying man.”

 

\---

‘The Pie Hole’ was one of the places that John had considered to review his recollections at, because Porter had mentioned that few people come in and the owner Ned pretty much left others to their businesses. _And, no Sherlock to ogle you,_ he added, for his dislike of the person still persisted up to that afternoon. As soon as Ned delivered his apple pie with a little smile, John booted his laptop, put the CD into the drive, plugged his earphones on and listened to the recording given to him.

Half an hour passed, and John’s perspective was completely turned around. Dr. Grey was right; he needed that person whom he shared the same dream with. Fumbling his jeans pocket, he pulled out the crumpled paper which contained the person’s address.

Another half hour of contemplation, he was out of the door and on his way.

 

\---

“John.”

Porter was surprised when he saw John Watson turn up on his front door. How he had figured out his address, he did not know and was dying to find out. John, too, was surprised when he saw that the subject Dr. Grey was referring to was none other than John Porter himself. Both stared at each other for a few heartbeats, trying to grasp the situation they were in. Porter was the first to recover, opening the door wider and signalling for John to come in. The other obliged quietly, taking care as he took furtive steps into Porter’s flat.

“I’m sorry for the mess, I was cleaning out my things. I’ll be vacating this place soon… But do have a seat.” Porter tried his best to sound welcoming as he led John to the living room, where a pair of couches and four boxes full of personal effects adorned the floor.

“It’s… Alright,” John mumbled, still in disbelief on how he had ended up in the sergeant’s place. Porter had disappeared into the kitchen to get a glass of water, while John remained standing, transfixed on how bare this room was. Looking for a distraction, he snooped on one open box, in which he found a frame containing a picture of two girls aged around nine. One girl had blond hair, tied into two braids hanging gaily on the either side of her head. The other girl had dark brown hair, much like Porter’s, simply tumbling in waves to her shoulders. Both had green eyes and smiles of sweetness mingled with mischievousness. John somewhat felt warmth as he looked at the photograph, making him smile as well.

He felt as if he knew them well, way back.

“That’s Phyllis and Kelly, precious darlings.” John jumped upon hearing Porter’s voice, taken aback as he was caught holding some personal stuff of his. The other didn’t seem to mind, for he merely smiled as he walked over, handing over a glass of water to John. For a moment, their hands brushed as they held the glass, and he thought it stupid that he felt his knees weaken at the contact. Feinting, he sat on the nearest couch and sipped on his water as Porter sat on the adjacent couch, watching him as he set the frame back in the box.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Very. I only wish that they played with dolls and dresses instead of swords and guns.”

John’s eyes widened at the comment, and Porter took it to stride and laughed. The former found himself chorusing in the laugh soon enough, momentarily forgetting why he was even there. However, Porter was straight enough to the point and asked after their laughter died out.

“How did you find me?”

John closed his eyes and swallowed, frantically forming the words in his head.

_Here it goes._

“Dr. Ralph Grey gave your address to me, stating that you may have answers to my questions.”

Porter’s eyebrow rose at the mention of the psychiatrist’s name.

“You saw him for a consultation as well?” He asked uneasily, to which John only replied with a nod.

“What did he tell you?” Porter found his voice rising to a sense of urgency. It seems impossible for two people to have the same dream, he thought. It seemed impossible for two persons who had met in a former life to meet again.

“We… had the same dream, Porter. Memory, if you may call it.” John started, clutching the glass for support. “I dreamt that I was seeing a man dying in front of me, a man whom I knew was a force to be reckoned with, strong… But there he lay, wounded and broken, so far from healing. I kept crying and telling him to stay awake and caressing his face… And he had your face, John. He looked like you.” Watson paused for breath, looking up the ceiling as he inhaled. “He _was_ you.”

John Porter was astounded as he listened to John Watson’s side of the account. He had never expected this problem to be solved so soon. Just when he was ready to put it aside and focus on the mission he had ahead, John Watson came. He had found the face of the golden-haired youth in his own dream. He glanced at John, an arm’s length away from him, hands now clasped around the glass, forehead pressed against his hands, waiting for an answer. Heaving a deep breath, Porter began.

“In my dream, I was dying. Wounds from battle, I presumed. But, I felt no pain, only tranquil. Suddenly, I felt somebody crouch beside me… a young man, from the looks of it. I cannot recall his features then, only the blond curls that cascaded on his head. His sobs broke my heart; his touch sparked the life that remained in me. Yet, death was stronger, and I bid my farewell. Before my dream self succumbed, I could hear his voice linger in my head as he called ‘Thorin, no’ over and over again.” He stopped, looking at John, who was presently looking back directly towards him, holding on to his glass tightly, listening to him with raptness.

Porter continued, “I consulted this to Dr. Grey and… I found out I was once this dwarf king-in-exile on a place called Middle Earth. I had established a company of dwarves to reclaim my kingdom and in addition to my company was a wizard and a… There was a peculiar term I muttered then…”

“Hobbit,” John suddenly blurted out as Porter hunched forward to hear the doctor better, it was his turn to be taken aback. “I underwent the same thing, and from my own mouth came words, experiences, _memories_ I never knew I had.” He set the glass down on the carpet and locked his fingers together. “I was a hobbit, from your same Middle Earth. I joined your same company of dwarves…”

“The wizard claimed you were a burglar.”

“I wasn’t, I merely learned, and owed a bit to luck.”

“True enough, because you stole something from me.”

“I only did it because you were so stubborn!”

“You used it to blackmail me into submission!”

“I did it to save you from any trouble so your kingdom will remain untouched until you can rebuild it!”

“I never trusted you from the start. I knew you were weak, helpless, worthless, until you started doing feats that eventually earned us trust and then I knew you did that because you had the stone that was once mine and almost wanted it for yourself!”

“You always said I was weak, helpless and worthless and I tried so hard to make it up to you because I knew that beyond your scepticism was a being merely needing a little help!”

“I did not need your help.”

“Then why did you accept it anyway?”

“Because you were the only one who had the heart to help me without being asked.”

Both didn’t realize that in the heat of their exchange of words, they have stood up, abreast with each other. Watson looked up at Porter, storm grey eyes affixed on the familiar electric blue ones, equal in anger, disappointment, contempt and blame, yet tempered with some kind of tenderness in them. All feelings of the distant past seemed to have resurfaced.

“I-I’m really sorry.” John shifted his gaze towards the carpet in embarrassment to the outburst. Porter, meanwhile, placed both hands on John’s shoulders, steadying both of them.

“I am too, for this madness.” He whispered, so low and close to John’s ear even though they were the only ones who heard.

“But it isn’t madness. It’s nothing but the unfathomable truth.” Slowly, deliberately, John rested his head on Porter’s chest, feeling the rise and fall as he breathed, and the heartbeats that raced like war horses in battle. In some way, he had found that they were in the same rhythm, in more ways than one, and it was comforting. For the first time after a long while, he felt peace.

“There is one more truth left to unravel.” Porter placed a hand under John’s chin, tilting up his face gently, “One truth that both of us never acknowledged in our times of yore.”

_He couldn’t mean that-_ In his mind, John felt like launching into a rant, but it was dispelled when Porter pressed his lips against John’s, and everything came into a standstill. Dry, cracked and tough against soft and warm, rough stubble against supple skin, all was too much for John to bear. A tear had started trailing down his cheek when Porter whispered onto his mouth.

“I loved you then.”

John closed his eyes and felt the gravity of Porter’s words crack open his heart as more tears started falling. Mustering his remaining courage, he replied, mouth still closely grazing the other as he felt a strong and warm hand caress his face, wiping tears away.

“Does this mean I love you now?”

 

\---

When John came back to 221B Baker Street after an unprecedented overnight stay, he came back to find it empty. _Sherlock must have gone gallivanting again_. Strangely enough, he found the flat quite tidied up, the kitchen cleared of all the dirty cups and saucers, and the beds made. Some sort of anxiety crept up John’s spine. The detective wasn’t quite as ardent to housework as this. He went back to the living room, looking for some sign or note from Sherlock, if he left one. True enough, there was a piece of note paper stuck between two books on the fireplace. John approached it carefully, looking for more clues. And there it was, just beside the antique tea bell, John’s mobile phone. He shut his eyes and slapped his palm on his forehead thrice, berating himself for holding yesterday’s grudge. Definitely, Sherlock considered the option that John left his phone at home, and was right. Without further delay, John snatched the note from its hiding place and opened it. Thus, Sherlock’s lazy scrawls said:

_Gone to morgue for new case. Took your recorder. Give me a text when if you’re on your way. SH_

_P.S. You are the greatest wanker in the whole universe._

\---

[1/25/10 14:21:45] How was the shrink? SH

[1/25/10 15:16:30] That session is taking too long. SH

[1/25/10 17:00:24] Are you on your way? SH

[1/25/10 17:08:36] Buy some Earl Grey and scones. SH

[1/25/10 17:09:45] Please. SH

[1/25/10 19:45:29] John? SH

[7 MISSED CALLS]

[1/25/10 20:52:45] Pick up, you tosser. SH

[7 MISSED CALLS]

[1/25/10 21:10:35] I’m not calling the police for a missing person. I’m finding you. SH

[1 MISSED CALL]

[1/26/10 00:08:55] Just come home when you can, John. SH


	5. The Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seemingly-fictitious past was forgotten in that moment, he mused. It wasn’t about the dwarf-king and the hobbit anymore, but about the doctor and the soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG GUYS FINALLY. Here it is, the last installment for this drabble-turned-to-five-parts fic. Wow. I know it had taken me so long to do it. It spanned a few writer-blocks, Chinese New Year, an hour's worth of coffee breaks and the advent of the Harlem Shake. Also, this is made out of a liter of coffee, a hundred morsels of food, blood, sweat and tears. i think I forgot to mention words.
> 
> Let me just thank ALL OF YOU who stayed with me during the ride, especially to the awesomest [Linc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lincesque) for going with me through the ups, downs and side-to-sides of my writing process and to my cousin [Cy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/life-as-an-angel-condom) for occasionally using brute force on me, going as far as threatening to kill me if I don't finish this (which she immediately took back because she needed me alive to write it haha).
> 
> HAPPY WHITE DAY EVERYONE. <3 I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Own nothing, get nothing! Just love. <3

The laboratory had never been as deathly silent as that day. John was getting used to long stretches of quiet with Sherlock, but this was an altogether different affair. From the air hung a peculiar kind of tension that was quite foreign, and it deeply confounded both of them. Sherlock, meanwhile, had noticed when John slipped in a good twenty minutes ago, but decided to appear engrossed with examining the slides prepared under the microscope, which he used as an excuse to ignore him. Yet, discreetly, he was listening to every word and watching every move John made.   
  
It was because he needed answers.   
  
"I'm here, Sherlock." John had announced when he went in, immediately taking his usual spot on the other side of the granite counter across from the consulting detective. Seeing that he didn't notice, John went on to read the files that littered his side of the counter, waiting for Sherlock to say anything. Meanwhile, the other peered intently into the eyepieces of the microscope, yet never keeping the doctor away from his line of sight. It was then when he started to deduce.   
  
 _Presumably, he has seen the evident signs I left in the flat this morning. Not making eye contact, arms crossed to the chest while reading, legs crossed facing away from me, obviously doesn't want to converse. Eyes shifting from side to side, wringing hands almost every minute, rhythmic tapping of foot on floor, tension. Stress. Guilt? Oh I wish he hadn’t changed his clothing from yesterday, though. Could give me a lot of clues. But, his shirt collar popped up higher than usual, obviously hiding something. A love mark, perhaps?_    
  
The sleuth’s deduction had been interrupted by the sound of a sheaf of papers rustling as it was being placed on a surface. Finally, Sherlock brought his eyes up from the microscope to John, whose eyebrows were furrowed and lips pursed, as his usual mannerism when he talks after a long train of thought.   
  
“So, what needs to be done for this case?” Apprehension laced John’s voice.   
  
“Nothing.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Nothing, it has been solved half an hour ago, before you arrived. I was merely looking at samples of snow from different areas in the UK, checking if their acidity and composition correspond with pollution levels, like acid rain… John?” Sherlock’s explanation has been cut short when he saw John standing up abruptly from his seat, chair scraping loudly on the tile floor. He was hankering to stand up from his seat to follow after the doctor as his heavy footfalls echoed in the laboratory, clearly as sign of exasperation.   
  
“Where are you going?”   
  
“Anywhere but around you, Sherlock,” John answered, irked, without even of a glance back. Sherlock could only gape as the other opened the door cogently and flinch a bit when he banged it shut. He sighed in resignation and peered back towards the microscope. Now, he would have to deal with summarising and taking down the details of the case, for John was currently out-of-mind and quite angry for whatever reason. Normally, John would stick around for as long as he can, slipping away quietly again or until Sherlock decides to jump to another case and then he tags along. Now, it seems like he wants some distance for the moment. Thus, the blog entry would have to wait.   
  
 _Intricate, irregular, individual_ , he mused, but it wasn’t the snowflakes he was thinking about. 

 

\---

 

John Porter scanned the room with an air of finality about him. At last, he was to leave the miserable hole he was in for seven years. He will be finally doing something worthwhile again, worthwhile although no assurance of coming back. But, Iraq was far better than a dingy flat in London where he does nothing but wallow in self-pity and regret and failure. Several boxes littered the main room, filtered orange light shining on them through the bare window. Who knows where SAS will store his belongings, but he was sure that those boxes containing memorabilia of the life he used to live were mixed with whatever feelings he would not need in his forthcoming mission, feelings he should deliberately forego.   
  
And in one of those boxes was his newfound but short-lived fondness for John Watson.   
  
Slowly, he lifted his eyes from the pile of boxes towards the fireplace, where there had been two threadbare couches just the night before. The movers had taken them away, to be shipped somewhere else or to be disposed, he did not know.   
  
In between the couches he saw two people, himself and John, standing close to each other, the latter’s head on his chest.   
  
He stood, eyes focused on thin air.   
  
 _“Does this mean I love you now?”_    
  
He could still feel John’s lips on his, searching for a reason why he had done it in the first place.   
  
 _Slowly, Porter took unhurried steps backward, while John followed his lead and moved forward, stopping when he felt the couch brush against his calf._    
  
His stare made a subtle arc as his head tilted a bit downward, as if watching something fall.   
  
 _With mouths still pressed together, he fisted the collar of John’s jacket and pulled him downward as he fell forcefully on the couch, the other spilling onto his lap, shifting his body until he settled, fitting every inch of him onto Porter._    
  
The taste of rust started to settle as he nicked the dried skin off his lip. He was unconsciously biting them.   
  
 _Porter finally broke off John, leaving them both breathless and uncoordinated. Instinctively, he started to plant soft kisses, tracing a line from his jaw, downward to the length of his neck, lingering on the part where it meets the shoulder. As he breathed onto the crevice, he felt John shudder, and in his ears sounded the subtlest of sighs._  
  
The seemingly-fictitious past was forgotten in that moment, he mused. It wasn’t about the dwarf-king and the hobbit anymore, but about the doctor and the soldier.   
  
 _The buttons of John’s shirt found their way out their holes, one by one._    
  
His gaze shifted from the fireplace to the bare counter in the kitchen.   
  
 _He let his coarse, calloused hands roam on John Watson’s exposed skin as they kissed once again, this time more urgent and ardent than what had been a few moments ago._  
  
If anybody could see how he smiled and shook his head, remembering everything, he’d be damned.   
  
 _John was now seated on the counter with Porter standing between his legs, neck craning up slightly as his tongue slipped against the other’s, hand lingering on the intriguing star-shaped patch of scar on his left shoulder._    
  
However, as he had thought earlier on, it was short lived.   
  
 _“Wait.” The doctor gasped as the soldier’s hands started unbuckling the belt of John’s faded jeans. He stopped, then grazed with his lips a trail from the scar to his shoulder, neck and jaw, and paused on his left ear to whisper._  
  
 _“This isn’t right?”_  
  
 _John placed his hands on Porter’s bare chest and pushed him gently away._  
  
 _“In every way,” and in his tone was guilt._  
  
He turned his back away from the main room to face the hallway to the front door, his duffel bag hanging on the hook, waiting for his cue to go.   
  
 _Porter took a step backward and sighed, the touch still warm on his skin. He looked on as John went down from his spot on the counter, and as he picked up the crumpled shirt from the floor.  
_  
 _“We were carried away, were we?” Unease hung in the air as he spoke._  
  
 _The other was currently putting on his shirt, trying his best to smooth out the wrinkles. “Um, yeah… I guess so.”_  
  
 _“I’m sorry.” Porter stammered._  
  
 _“So am I.”_  
  
The hallway seemed so long as Porter walked through it and the thought maybe it was for the last time. Gingerly, he got the bag from the hook and slung it on his shoulder. Then, he turned the doorknob and switched off the lights of the kitchen and the main room, the only illumination coming from the setting sun and the building corridor. 

_Porter was about to go into his bedroom as John pushed the couches to position them as a makeshift bed when he paused by the doorway and called out in the direction of the living room._

_“It’s Holmes, is it?”_

_A hush passed for a few beats, until he heard a barely audible and shaky “yes.”_

With one last look in the twilit interior of his now-former dwelling, he went through the door and closed it for the last time.

  
\--- 

  
  
“If only he had told me sooner that I wasn’t really needed there anymore!” John accidentally set the teacup on the saucer rather vigorously, to Mrs. Hudson’s chagrin. He was sitting in her kitchen next door, as he always did on afternoons when he was on his day off at the clinic and for lack of anything better to do. The elderly woman pulled a chair closer to John, placing a hand on his knee for support as she sat, as well as a comforting gesture.   
  
“But dear, you usually wait for him as your patience allows, how come this sudden change?”   
  
“He just makes me so mad, Mrs. Hudson!” John shifted suddenly, knocking her hand off his knee. In apology, he took her gentle hand in both of his, squeezing gently. “I don’t even know why I’m mad at him, he hasn’t done anything.” He averted his eyes to the carpet, away from Mrs. Hudson’s kind but scrutinizing gaze. “It was me who has done something, actually.”   
  
The matron brought up a hand to John’s cheek and stroked it softly, coaxing the other to look at her. When he finally did, Mrs. Hudson gave her sweetest smile and said to John. “You can tell me what’s wrong, love. We have all afternoon.”   
  
With this, John started by telling the dream to Mrs. Hudson, followed by the moment when he met John Porter, the past-life regression hypnotherapy session with Dr. Grey and the unexpected confrontation that the two of them had after everything. All throughout the story, she merely nodded at some points, and was shortly the one who had held John’s hands in her own, stroking and squeezing whenever his words started buckling or when he stopped to sigh or swallow. As much as possible, Mrs. Hudson kept an open mind to the whole lot John had said, but one thing had crossed her mind, and it seemed to clash with the situation.   
  
“If you don’t me asking, dear, where does Sherlock lie in all of this?”   
  
John knew the very answer to her question, but he could not bring himself to say it out loud. Instead, he gave Mrs. Hudson a long, meaningful look. After some time, as the stare grew longer, did she finally manage to get the message and blurted out, "Oh, but you indeed love him very much do you?" Her arms automatically flew to John's neck as his lip began to quiver. All that could be heard after that was a quiet rustle of fabric as Mrs. Hudson smoothed her hand on his back and John's ragged sigh on her shoulder. 

  
  
\--- 

  
  
Sherlock clutched the apple he was holding tighter as he heard the door to the flat open. Naturally it was John, he thought, thus his absurd experiment failed. Out of his prior fallout with him that morning, he had taken a fancy to take the adage "an apple a day keeps the doctor away" literally, a desperate measure of trying to keep the said doctor at bay for a while, to give him time to think. The past few days had been giving him the most unstable of conclusions about himself and whether his deductions about John Watson and John Porter were correct.   
  
Either that or he was also thinking of ways to deliberately make his deductions appear wrong.   
  
Fortunately, he had chanced upon a letter given to him by Stamford later during the day. It was from John Porter himself, much to his surprise. It was as mediocre-looking as it had seemed (having been written on a plain sheet of 60gsm memo paper with a black, ball-point pen), but it sure given him much clarification on some facts. Still, he wanted to make John talk. He had been least offended with his walk-out that morning, but if he made it seem he was upset, perhaps thing could start rolling from there.

_Make a person feel that you are upset with them and they start defending themselves, usually making them say the hidden truths accidentally. I’m so sorry, John, for pawning you again this time._

He trained his eyes towards the firelight, trying his best not to turn around and give John a sweep for clues. Instead, he listened as footsteps sounded from the door, slowly getting louder as they made a way to the living room, where he was seated on his usual couch, facing the fireplace directly, his back turned to everything else in the room, as he usually did when deep in thought. However, the set-up lost its purpose when he felt John’s weight on the backrest, his hands light but firm on his shoulders.   
  
“Sherlock…” He fought the urge to shrug John’s hands off, but he couldn’t bring himself to. It felt proverbial, comfortable, intimate… For a second he forgot that he demanded from him an explanation for a lot of things. To recover, he shifted his position on chair and gave a low hum, acknowledging John’s presence. John, meanwhile, saw this as a positive sign that Sherlock was listening, even though he knew his mind was probably working at his every word and gesture.   
  
“I should say sorry. I admit that I have left you in the dark about something, and perhaps you went on and figured it out anyway.” Mrs. Hudson had advised John to ask for forgiveness about his rash behaviour from the incident in the laboratory, and finally make clear to him everything that had happened, especially that ones that Sherlock needed to know.   
  
And, it includes the very thing that he didn’t want to admit to himself.   
  
“Remarkable how you give me the benefit of a doubt, John.” Sherlock spoke in his coldest voice as he twisted around, facing John who stood by the backrest, hands now clutching it for support. “You are correct, though, about me figuring it out.” 

John sighed in resignation. He was obviously too late, and Sherlock knows about everything in particular. Yet whether he needed his side or not, he still went on to start elaborating.

_This is the part where I’d be damned._

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes, the first time I saw John Porter, I felt he was the man in the dream. Yes, that made me more interested with him. Yes, I called him up, not for clarifications on the case, but because I wanted to see him again. Yes, that day I went for psych eval, I also went to another psychotherapist for a session of past-life regression hypnosis, and got surprised by the outcome. Yes, it led me to Porter. Yes, I admit that I may have had feelings for him because of the past-life thing. Yes, something happened. Well, almost. I stopped him because…” John paused, suddenly nervous as he was met with Sherlock’s hard, piercing stare.

_He knows it already, for crying out loud. Why do I still need to tell him?_

Perfectly arched eyebrows went up as Sherlock waited for John to continue.

“Because…” The words were suddenly lost in his head, crumbling into dust as the detective peered into him. On prompt, Sherlock picked up from where he left.

“Because you loved me, was it?”

The dust that was once words turned itself into a sandstorm in John’s head. His vision started spinning out of nervous anticipation. However Sherlock knew it, he didn’t want to know anymore.

“I knew about that dream of yours because you told me, and then what? John Porter came and I saw how you looked at him.” Sherlock closed his eyes and paused for breath. “That moment, I swear, I saw your resolve to work on this problem of yours alone, without me, while I watched as you tried to pursue the solution–what was I thinking? I watched as you tried to pursue him!”   
  
He closed his eyes, not wanting to see Sherlock seeing through him like he was made of glass.

“And you hid it all from me because you didn’t want me to think of anything, yes?”

John nodded.

“Let me tell you, John. I thought of every possible thing the moment I felt you hid something. Damn it, I even felt _fucking jealous_ because, for once, there was another one vying for your attention aside from me.”

Previously hard-shut eyes were forced open with the statement. And when John opened them, the first thing he saw was those familiar blue eyes looking unexpectedly tender and vulnerable towards him.

“Yes, I was jealous because I had thought it was only me who was in there, John.” Sherlock lifted a lithe finger and pointed it delicately on the centre of John’s chest.

In that moment, both had finally understood, without any more words, the reality that had been pushed aside by the circumstance all along. A long silence had followed after that, only broken with the sounds of John bending down to place a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s lips, sending through them all his unsaid apologies, amendments and relief on how things had turned out.

“Forgive me, John.” Sherlock said softly the second they pulled apart, touching his forehead with his own.

“Mmm-hmm,” replied John, with a quick peck on Sherlock’s nose before he straightened up and sat on the armrest nearest him. “You know what, knowing your past, past-life really puts things into perspective.” As he spoke, he wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder.

“So you’re telling me I should go to that Grey shrink?” He replied, his voice equal parts amused and cynical.

“If you mean to, yes.”

“Then he’ll tell me I was once an airborne fire breather, with teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks and extremely fond of precious metals?”

“You could’ve just said ‘dragon’, Sherlock.”

“Shut up.”

A low chuckle and a tinkling laugh echoed in the room.

 

\---

 

Mr. Sherlock Holmes

C/O Dr. Michael Stamford

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital

 

Mr. Holmes:

 

I am not the only one with means here. I have a few tricks up my sleeve as well, that is why this letter is in your hands now.

As I write this, John is fitfully sleeping in the living room, on his makeshift bed assembled from my couches. And, as you read this, I may be on my flight to Iraq, where duty awaits.

John may have mentioned that he found out that we were, if what the past-life hypnotherapy sessions suggest were correct, rather important persons to each other way before. But, that doesn’t mean we can say the same at present.

Yes, we may have felt whatever feelings harboured long-ago. We may have manifested those feelings one way or another. But, then isn’t now.

He loves you, Sherlock. He really does.

If he didn’t, then he would have let _it_ happen last night. He would have not stopped me and pushed me away. We would have relived or continued or made more whatever has past, yet he chose today.

He chose you.

However, do not get me wrong. I do not wish to rival you. I finally figuring out the reasons for my absurd dreams have made me at peace. John had made me at peace with that part of me, and I am thankful and content with that. What I do wish, though, is that you do ensure his safety and well-being. And, perhaps, make him forget. Make him forget me. This is for his own good. Let him focus once again on right now, which is far more important.

I enclosed here the copy of my session. You might want to listen to this and to his recollections. It rather makes it more interesting. Also, I’ve written Dr. Ralph Grey’s clinic address here, in case you’d like your own.

 

Until then,

John Porter

 

 

 

P.S. Never mention this letter to John. Burn it, keep it, your call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know what happens to John Porter in the "Strike Back" series, let's cry together. ;__;
> 
> And, excuse the errors. I had to say this was unbeta-ed.
> 
> THANKS FOR READING! Please stay tuned for updates/new fics/drabbles. There will be.


End file.
